


Steve Rogers and the Accidental Honeypot

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Covert Pervert Steve Rogers, Crack, Dammit Westfahl, Fucking Machines, Homophobia, Humor, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Orgy, Polyamory, Redemption, Trans Character, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve didn't mean to be so good at sex that all the HYDRA agents switched their allegiance.  It just sort of happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steve Rogers and the Accidental Honeypot

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's!
> 
> Julie Anders is the invention of [bofurrific](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific), first appearing in her fic _[Brock doesn't need transphobic pieces of shit on his team](http://orderthroughpain.tumblr.com/post/90712441920/brock-doesnt-need-transphobic-pieces-of-shit-on)_. She appears here as always with bofurrific's permission. If you're curious as to what she looks like, bofurrific has described her as resembling German songwriter [Kim Petras.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kim_Petras) Her boyfriend Rowan is another of bofurrific's inventions, and resembles actor [Nathan Stewart-Jarrett.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nathan_Stewart-Jarrett)
> 
> Isaac Murphy is a character of my own invention, and resembles actor [Diego Luna](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diego_Luna#mediaviewer/File:Diego_Luna_by_David_Shankbone.jpg).

From the tent, Gabe’s low moan is audible. Bucky’s response—a weak, shaking gasp—follows immediately after.

“That’s four,” Monty says, shifting on the relatively dry brush, his hands now clutching his thighs rather than held out toward the fire. “He’ll be feeling that in the morning.”

Steve and Monty have the night’s first watch. They’re stationed in the Alps, everyone packed together in one large tent instead of the doubles they usually carry. It would help to ward off hypothermia, the SSR had said. Steve doubted this was what they’d had in mind.

It had started nearly two hours ago. Bucky had been complaining of the cold—thanks to the serum, the conversations in the tent are crystal clear even when Steve’s yards away and in heavy wind—when Dugan had taken it upon himself to shut the sniper up. With his mouth, judging from the sound of it. From there, the noises had grown louder and darker until Steve and Monty were fidgeting around the fire and the others in the tent were grumbling and throwing things at the interruption of their sleep.

It hadn’t taken long for them to come around, though. By the time Bucky and Dugan finished—with a cry of “Wa-hoo” they were lucky didn’t bring an avalanche down on all their heads—Gabe and Dernier had already started up.

From there on out, it got a little murky as to exactly what was going on behind that canvas cloth, but Steve caught Bucky’s sated sigh three more times: from Jim, from Dernier, and now from Gabe.

It was torture to listen to, all of it, but the sweetest kind of torment. Steve’s been aching in his suit for well over an hour now, in spite of the freezing winds. He’d credit the serum, but Monty’s in the same boat. Steve blames Dernier’s filthy mouth.

“Here to relieve you, Cap.”

Steve turns away from the fire to find Dugan and Jim striding out of the tent. They’re flushed but otherwise composed. He can’t help but grin. “ _You’re_ here to relieve me? Or will they do that inside?”

Dugan just grins.

“It was your boy’s idea,” Jim says, lighting up a cigarette. “Maybe not the most restful, but it did a hell of a lot for morale.”

“Any noise out here?” Dugan asks, settling down by the fire.

“Not that I’d have heard it over your festivities,” Monty says, “but no.”

In the tent, Bucky’s sprawled on top of Gabe, eyes half shut. He’s still struggling to even his breathing, but he smiles and reaches out to Steve.

“We’ve got a train to catch in the morning, Buck.” His tone is stern, but Bucky sees right through it.

“But it’s _cold_ , Steve,” he whines. “Warm me up.”

Steve tries to look as though he might not acquiesce. “I don’t think you’ve got another one in you.”

“Shut up me up then.” Bucky’s hand closes on the canvas of Steve’s pant leg, tugging him forward. “C’mon.”

“I’d better not hear a word out of you when we head out at dawn,” Steve warns, unbuttoning his fly. Monty’s already slipping into the sheets beside Dernier.

“Sir, yes sir.” Bucky’s eyes are sparkling as he scrambles to his knees.

*

“What about you, Cap?” Rumlow asks, stretching his legs in the Quinjet. “You got any weekend plans?”

“Hmm?” Steve isn’t letting his eyes travel the length of Rumlow’s thighs, isn’t noticing the way his legs have fallen a little wider open with the stretch. Definitely not imagining the body behind Rumlow’s belt buckle. That would be inappropriate.

“Rogers.” Rollins is waving his hand in Steve’s line of sight. He smacks Rumlow on the thigh with his movements—none too gently, judging by Rumlow’s grunt—a frown on his face. “Can I help you?”

“Oh. Uh.” Steve averts his eyes, shaking his head at himself. _There’s a time and a place, Rogers._ And in this century, it’s not on the clock with his coworkers. Particularly not when three of his four teammates are in relationships, two of them with each other. He gives a sheepish smile that does little to brighten Rollins’s expression. “Sorry. Just thinking. No, I don’t have any plans.”

Some things were simpler during the war. Initiating a round of post-victory sex was definitely one of them. None of the Commandos had been attached save for Steve himself, and he’d had an understanding with Peggy. They’d spent months cut off from the world they knew, behind enemy lines, homesick and dizzy with adrenaline.

Nowadays they spend a week at most in the field before returning to familiarity. Anders has her boyfriend and Rumlow and Rollins have each other. And as the team lead, it’s probably inappropriate to think about what his subordinates look like flushed and rolling in the sheets anyway. There’s a whole world of people out there looking for casual sex and the Internet makes arranging a fling even easier.

Except even a year after coming out the ice, Steve’s still struggling to adjust to the world he woke to. Sometimes it’s exhausting just to haul himself out of bed, let alone arrange a hookup online. Sometimes he wants a friend, not a stranger, and there are so few people left on Earth that view him as Steve Rogers instead of Captain America. And sometimes he’ll glance at a team member walking back onto the Quinjet and _hey_ , that’s a post-mission hard-on and the gentlemanly thing would be to wrap a hand around it and wouldn’t that be better for morale than letting them slink off to the head anyway?

Rollins is still scowling as though he can read every filthy thought in Steve’s mind, so he looks away, eyes falling on Murphy. Murphy, the only other STRIKE member not in a relationship. He’s cute in a “how the hell did anyone trust this guy on a tactical team” sort of way. Steve’s pretty sure Murphy would tear up over newborn kittens. Which would be adorable. “Hey, Isaac. What are you doing this weekend?”

“Oh!” Murphy stiffens in his seat, suddenly very interested in staring down at his phone. “Uh, just...you know, protesting unsustainable fishing practices. That sort of thing.”

Steve imagines Murphy waving a sign, all worked up, eyes sparkling, sweating a little. He does not think of pressing his lips against Murphy’s, of making him moan himself too hoarse to shout any protest slogans. Definitely not. “Have fun.”

“Sure,” Murphy says, not looking up. “I will.”

*

This does not look like a vegan singles’ bar.

In retrospect, Murphy should have been suspicious the moment Anders told him about this place. What kind of vegan establishment calls itself Cephalopoda?

“I think a percentage of their proceeds go to sustainable fishing companies or something,” Anders had said. She’d been grinning. That ought to have been another red flag, but she was usually grinning at Murphy’s expense anyway. “One of the guys in my support group mentioned it. Seemed like the perfect place for the environmental, chronically dateless type.”

“Up yours, Jules,” Murphy had said.

Digs aside, it had sounded like heaven. A singles’ bar full of people he knew wouldn’t be judging his diet or patronizing companies that supported deforestation? That eliminated at least sixty percent of Murphy’s pre-date vetting process in one go.

Theoretically, anyway. In actuality, Cephalopoda is a shady-looking place with blacked out windows and loud music coming through the walls. Not obscure modern folk music either. This is definitely metal. Murphy has nothing against metal, but it has no business at a vegan singles’ bar.

He’s not sure _he_ has any business at a vegan singles’ bar either, as an ovo-lacto vegetarian. What if he’s not welcome?

Murphy takes a steadying breath, gathering his resolve. He can’t be afraid of a _vegan bar._ Julie will never let him hear the end of it. And besides, he told Captain America that he was going to be protesting unsustainable fishing practices; he’d just left out the part with the maybe flirting, maybe with other men. Spending money here will do that. He can’t lie to _Captain America._ Other than about the HYDRA thing.

 _You are a tac-team agent for one of the world’s most powerful intelligence organizations,_ Murphy tells himself. _You can handle this_. And with that, he steps inside.

This is definitely _not_ a vegan singles’ bar.

First of all, almost everybody is milling around in leather. Leather! Leather that probably didn’t even come from ethical manufacturing. And that’s just in the foyer. When Murphy wanders further in, searching for the bar—though this is looking so not worth pursuing, _damn it Jules_ —he doesn’t find any source of refreshments. Instead there are rooms with even more people in leather. And...things. _Things_ going on.

Murphy isn’t naïve. He’s been on a Sybian. Once, he let his girlfriend blindfold him. But this stuff—he isn’t even sure of the _names_ for some of this stuff.

Time to go. Time to track down Julie and give her a strongly worded lecture about sending people to kinky places without properly informing them of any potential triggers. Murphy turns and runs straight into yet another leather-clad stranger. This one has a good foot on him. And is very broad. And is smiling.

“Hey, cutie,” the man says. “You new around here?”

Murphy’s throat is too dry to speak. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that BDSM practitioners are mostly lovely people who are very dedicated to keeping things safe, sane, and consensual, but mostly he’s trying not to faint.

“What’s your name?” the man asks, and Murphy can actually feel his adrenaline production kick into overdrive.

“Bucky!” There’s a hand on Murphy’s shoulder and the only thing that keeps him from passing out is Captain America stepping into his line of sight. Cap’s in a charcoal gray suit, impeccable except for the slight tousle to his hair and flush on his face, and he’s smiling at Murphy and _what_? What is _Captain America_ doing here? “Buck! There you are. I was wondering where you’d run off to.”

“I—” Murphy begins. He nearly asks _Who the hell is Bucky?_ before his brain comes back online. Bucky’s only Captain America’s best friend and HYDRA’s greatest asset and how the hell did Murphy graduate high school if he can’t remember _Bucky Barnes_? The real question is why his CO is calling him by his dead bestie’s name. Actually, the real question is still what the hell is Captain America doing here?

The obvious answer is sex things, but that’s insane.

“You need some air, don’tcha?” Cap doesn’t sound like himself. He’s affected a thick Boston accent, and he’s steering Murphy toward the doors. “You gotta warn a guy before you vanish, Buck. You been keeping track of your blood sugar?”

And suddenly they’re outside. The evening air is freezing and the chill helps to convince Murphy that he’s probably not dreaming this. “I—” he says. “You...”

“Sorry about the theatrics,” Cap says, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t use my real name in there, didn’t think you’d want me dropping yours.”

“Is—is that legal?” That’s the least pressing question at hand but the only one Murphy’s mouth is willing to form.

“Only club around here that doesn’t require a background check.” Cap looks him over, and Murphy’s never felt so exposed. “You get lost on the way to your protest, Isaac?”

“Kinda?” It’s the best Murphy can manage. He’s bilingual but standing here, he’s forgotten the better part of both languages. There are a million questions and excuses banging around in his mind, but he can’t put any of them into actual speech.

“You weren’t here to experiment before I dragged you out, were you? This isn’t really beginner stuff.”

“No!” Murphy squeaks. “No, I’m not—that isn’t my—I mean for people who like it that’s completely fine and it’s no business of mine whatever anyone else does with consenting adults in their bed—even if they’re Captain America and I used to watch their cartoons growing up and oh God and I just—that—I got lost!”

“Hey, whoa. Breathe.” That’s Cap’s Commander Voice and Murphy starts to settle his breathing immediately. Oh God. Does he use that voice during sex? _Oh God._

“Look,” Cap continues. “Let’s get you home. How’d you get here, on your fixie?”

“Took the bus,” Murphy mumbles. How is he supposed to show up to work ever again now that he’s imagining Captain America in that suit, flogging some lady? Or some guy? _Oh God._

Cap takes out his pocket watch. He has a _pocket watch._ He’d be the most perfect gentleman ever except he probably also has a pocket full of nipple clamps. “Next one doesn’t run for almost a half hour. Want a lift? We can take my bike.”

“Uh,” says Murphy. “Yes. Thanks, sir.” He does not say _I’ve never been on a motorcycle_ and he does not say _My childhood is ruined forever,_ because that would be pathetic.

“It’s Steve. And don’t mention it.”

And then Murphy’s on the back of Captain America’s motorcycle, arms around his CO’s waist. In any other circumstance, Murphy would be giddy and probably singing “When Captain America throws his mighty shield” aloud. Now he can’t stop thinking about Captain America’s penis and the sort of circumstances it sees use in.

And that, combined with the vibrations of the motorcycle, is really not helping with Murphy’s own anatomy. Oh _God_. He shuffles as far back on the seat as he can without falling off, which isn’t far at all. His crotch is definitely still brushing up against America’s greatest soldier. Cap doesn’t say anything. Maybe he hasn’t noticed.

“Here we are,” Cap says, bringing the bike to a stop.

“Thank you, sir.” Murphy scrambles off the seat, standing in an awkward slouch, hands in his pockets, as if he’s a teen going through puberty all over again.

“Call me Steve, Isaac,” Cap insists. “Now, would you like some help or can you handle that on your own?”

“Handle what?” Murphy asks. He can’t possibly mean...

“Your erection,” Cap says. He doesn’t even blush. “You seem a little worked up to exert yourself dealing with it.”

“I—you— _what_?” Is Murphy dreaming? His mind feels like it’s overflowing with equal parts confusion and lust. “You’re—you’re my boss!”

“In my day, a CO made sure his team was healthy. And trusted their judgment about whether or not they felt comfortable having sex.” Cap sets the kickstand on his bike, starting to stand. “Or I could give you a prostate massage? That’s just a medical procedure, nothing funny.”

“I’ve lost all control of my life,” Murphy says, not sure if he’s speaking to Cap or to himself.

“Or I can go,” Cap says quickly, halting his movements up from the motorcycle. “Whatever you’d prefer, Isaac.”

His mouth is moving before he can even think about the words slipping out of it. “Wait, stay.”

This might just be the best night ever.

*

“This is the worst night of my life!” Murphy wails, face buried in a pillow.

“Aw, c’mon.” Cap is rubbing between Murphy’s shoulder blades, reclining against the reclaimed wood headboard. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Just relax. Let me be hard on you.”

“I can’t relax!” And that’s the problem: he literally _can’t._ Murphy’s just as hard as he was outside— _harder,_ from all their attempts to fool around—but he’s tense, too tense for penetration and no amount of lubricant or stroking or _licking_ —Captain America’s _tongue_ was between his legs how can Murphy ever show his face in a government building again?—has been able to loosen him up enough for anything to happen. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to fail to perform in front of Captain America?”

This had seemed like such a great plan in the parking lot. Now that Cap’s here, in Murphy’s apartment, in his _bedroom_ with all the cat posters on the walls, it’s obviously and completely insane.

“I’m not Captain America in bed.”

Murphy raises his head and just stares at him. All of him. “You kind of are, sir.”

“Isaac,” Cap says firmly, brushing Murphy’s hair back from his face. He’s still smiling, but he sounds a little exasperated. “It’s me, all right? It’s Steve. You’ve worked with me for almost a year now. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Right. Nothing to worry about. Except _all the things to worry about._

First of all, Cap is his superior and they have to work together again on Monday, and then Tuesday, and then _forever_. Secondly, what if Cap wants to do more of this, and wants to do kinky bondage things? Besides, Murphy’s pretty sure it’s a sin for him to sleep with Captain America. Murphy’s a terrible person: he once sent anonymous hate on Tumblr. And also there’s that whole HYDRA thing.

“Just breathe. Think about something else for a while. Like...this.” Cap brushes a hand over the octopus tattooed on Murphy’s hip. “When did you get this?”

“Two years ago, to celebrate my six month anniversary in STRIKE. This one’s from my sophomore year in college.” He runs his own trembling hand over the script across his ribs: _Peace is a responsibility._ “After I read the Secretary of Defense’s memoir. That’s a blue-ringed octopus, the one on my hip. It’s eight inches—that’s how big they are in real life. Well, the large ones. They have tetrodotoxin and their venom can kill humans, and that’s why I chose them, to show how beautiful and dangerous nature can be and oh God you don’t care about any of this.”

“I like it.” Bending down, Cap’s lip graze the tattoo. “It’s cute.” He nips at the skin and Murphy nearly falls off the bed. “Hey, relax. You were doing really well there, for a second.”

“So what, I should just ramble about my tattoos until I calm down enough for you to fuck me?” Oh fuck. He just said _fuck_ to Captain America. Wait. Murphy has to concede that’s really the least vulgar thing happening here.

“We don’t have to do anal,” Cap says as Murphy’s head spins because Captain America just said _anal_. “Do you like blowjobs?”

Murphy chokes. He can’t put his dick in _Captain America’s_ mouth. That’s like defiling the flag, but a thousand times worse. And then he’d have to blow Cap, because reciprocity and, well, the first thing he noticed when Cap slipped out of his suit is that the man is huge. The second thing he noticed was that Cap is also uncut and Murphy knows a lot of tricks involving foreskin that Cap would probably like, but the hugeness takes precedence. Gagging and puking on Captain America is not the impression he wants to make.

Cap smiles, sighs, shakes his head. “Here, I’ve got an idea. Get on your knees for me, okay?”

Murphy complies because that seems like a better option than praying to become invisible.

“Legs together,” Cap says. He’s using his Commander Voice again, and so Murphy’s already done it before he thinks to ask how this is supposed to help with the tensing.

“Good.” Cap’s hands are on Murphy’s hips then, steadying. The head of his cock is pushing between Murphy’s thighs and he’s not going to fit, they’ve already tried this. But he doesn’t attempt to push in. He just slides himself between Murphy’s legs, his erection dragging in a way that makes Murphy’s breath hitch. “There. We can move like this.”

“Oh,” Murphy says. And then Cap does move like that, and Murphy can’t speak, his already tense thighs clenching tighter around the cock between them.

“You like that?” Cap asks, pressing his chest to Murphy’s back.

“The Greeks did this,” Murphy gasps. What better time for a breathless, senseless history lesson? “Zeus a—and Ganymede. It was— _oh_ —it was basically the gay missionary position.”

“That’s nice.” And Cap’s lips brush against Murphy’s shoulder. “But do _you_ like this?”

“Yeah.” Murphy feels flushed, feverish. He doesn’t notice Cap’s hand moving until it’s wrapping around his own cock, and then he’s fucking against Cap’s fist in earnest. “ _Oh_. Yeah!”

This is the best night of his life.

*

Julie’s finally settling onto the couch to watch _Downton Abbey_ when her phone goes off.

Rowan sighs. They meant to start catching up with the latest episode half an hour ago, but a spirited popcorn fight had delayed the festivities.

If it were any other ringtone, Julie would ignore it, but that’s the Star Wars theme blaring from the coffee table. Which means Izzy. Which means she _has_ to sit up with an apologetic smile and take this.

She’d expected a call much earlier in the evening; Isaac had made it sound like he was heading to the “vegan singles’ bar” as soon as he changed out of his tac-gear and showered. She and Rowan had even held off dinner for an hour, expecting an angry rant over speakerphone at any moment. When that hilarity had failed to present itself, they’d carried on with their plans.

Of course Izzy would choose the least opportune moment for righteous indignation.

She sets the phone to speaker as Rowan pauses the TV. “Hey, Izzy,” she says, tone impassive even though she’s grinning ear to ear. “Make any new friends? Did you convert them to the guilt-free joy of _pleather_ assless chaps?”

Rowan’s giggling into his fist beside her. Okay, maybe it was a dick move, sending STRIKE’s most naïve and flustered agent to a BDSM club. But hey, last time Isaac caught Julie applying the wrong lip balm, he made her suffer through a hour long documentary on the plight of the bumblebees. He deserved it.

“Jules!” Isaac sounds breathless. He probably sprinted all the way home to his apartment to take comfort in his Vampire Weekend vinyls. Under the soothing light of his upcycled wine bottle chandelier. “Jules! Get your Sybian and your boyfriend and come over! Now! This is like a state of sensual emergency!”

Julie just stares at the phone. Either she’s actually managed to corrupt him, or sight of a ball gag’s shattered what little brain he had. She’s not sure which would be funnier. Probably the latter; Isaac would be as annoying of a BDSM convert as he is about everything else he holds dear. “Come again?”

“Listen, _Captain America_ —Steve—Captain America is over here and in my bed and he says that in his day the Howling Commandos used to do it like rabbits after the missions and he’s been itching to do that with his new team and he’s always wanted to try a Sybian plus he’s like a _Jedi Knight_ in bed, Jules, like the Master Yoda of sex, and you guys have got to come over holy _shit_ I’m ruined for life.”

“The fuck?” Isaac may be an idiot, but he’s not insane. Sure, there was the mission in Chiapas when he’d insisted there was a _chupacabra_ stalking them, but this is a whole other level of batshit. Did someone roofie him? Maybe there was some pervert in a Cap costume and now Julie’s gone and gotten her friend assaulted. _Shit_. “Isaac. Did someone buy you a drink? What have you done tonight?”

Rowan’s not laughing anymore.

“No, really!” Isaac insists. His speech isn’t slurred. “He said I could call you and everything! Listen—”

There’s a sound of rustling sheets and Julie’s stomach clenches in anticipation of hearing her friend’s rapist. “Izzy, wait—”

“Evening, Ms. Anders.”

That. That is _definitely_ Rogers. “The fuck?”

“I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation,” Rogers says. “I want to assure you, ma’am, that our activities were fully consensual. But I think it’s swell that you look after your friends like that.”

Julie retains the presence of mind to put her hand over the receiver before shrieking and slapping at Rowan. “ _Izzy fucked Captain America_!”

“Really?” Rowan says, looking torn between shock and a laughing fit. “You think _Izzy_ topped?”

“See?” Isaac’s saying into the phone. “C’mon, Jules, it’s _amazing_. Life-altering! Friends don’t let friends not ride Captain America’s dick!”

“Listen,” she says, lowering her voice. “I don’t think that’s a great plan. It could end up _really fucking awkward_ , Izzy.”

“No, it’s fine! He says in America, everyone should be equal! And don’t you want to see a super soldier ride the Sybian at full power?”

Julie glances at Rowan.

“Like hell am I gonna pass that up,” he says.

*

Steve Rogers on a Sybian is a sight too beautiful to put into words.

Julie lies panting on the bed, almost too sated and exhausted to focus on that glorious picture. Rowan’s likewise struggling to catch his breath beside her. Isaac’s playing with the dials on the machine and Rogers—well, Rogers isn’t just passively taking it. He’s rocking his hips, sliding up and down on the dildo vibrating in him, fucking just as hard as he’s being fucked. There’s a flush spread over his face and chest, but he barely looks winded. It’s breathtaking.

Rogers sinks fully down against the Sybian, head falling back and lips parting in a silent cry as he comes yet again. Is he even human?

“That’s the fifth time tonight,” Isaac says, gaping. “Aren’t you tired?”

And Rogers makes that good old boy American smile look unspeakably filthy. “I can do this all day.”

*

“No fucking way.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Rumlow whines. “When have I ever asked you for anything?”

Rollins just glares.

“I mean anything major,” Rumlow amends. “This is _Steve Rogers_ we’re talking about, Jack. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Come on.”

“Then what the fuck am I?” Rollins is really scowling now.

“You know that’s not what I meant!” Rumlow snaps. “Look, it’s hard for me to be calm minutes after learning that the whole damn team’s fucking Captain America behind my back, okay?”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t fuck anyone, Jack.” With a sigh and his most imploring stare, Rumlow sinks onto the bed beside Rollins, hugging onto him. There’s nothing but silence and anger radiating from his partner. Damn. No amount of puppy-eyed stares is getting Rumlow out of sleeping on the couch tonight.

“You knew that when we started,” Rollins says. “You said it didn’t bother you.”

“It doesn’t!” Really, it doesn’t. Rumlow would happily forgo any sexual contact from now until his death if it meant keeping Rollins around. He’s more than a friend and a second in command. More than partner. Rumlow wears Rollins’s dog tags on the chain around his neck, and Rollins does the same with Rumlow’s. It’s a promise, more of a vow than a wedding ring. It says “if I lose you, I’ll be dead too.” Rollins is the only one to consistently put up with Rumlow’s dumb ass over the years instead of drifting out of his life. He’s the first partner Rumlow’s ever had who wore the label of dominant without using it as an excuse to hurt and neglect. He’s everything.

But this is different. Rumlow can’t even put this into words.

“Then get yourself a star-spangled dildo. Don’t do this to me.”

“I love you, babe,” Rumlow insists, resting his head on Rollins’s shoulder. “More than anything. You know that, right? There’s never gonna be anyone I care about more than you, Jack.”

“Except Steve fucking Rogers.” Rollins is stiff, seething. He won’t meet Rumlow’s eye.

“It’s not like that, Jack. It’s—” Rumlow shakes his head. Where to start? “Listen, you know about my dad, growing up. You know what he was like, how he used to pass out in front of the TV. I told you I’d change the channel to the old Commandos reruns, just so I wouldn’t be alone with my old man’s snoring and all my damn thoughts. Captain America—he wasn’t just some TV show to me. I had this comic of his, and on the cover he was pointing, all _I want you_ and I know it’s fucking stupid, but I really thought he meant me. Like this super soldier was looking at some worthless punk kid and saying _you matter_. It’s...it’s just.”

Rumlow shakes his head and pulls away, staring down at the sheets. “Sometimes...a lot of times, that was all I had. That’s the whole fucking reason I joined the army, ‘cause I wanted to be like him. And back before I met you, all the other dicks I was with...there were some nights when it was still just Captain America that kept me going. And then he came _back_ , like some wish on a star that showed up thirty years late, and what the fuck could I do, you know? Why would he ever give Brock Rumlow the time of day? And now I realize he _would,_ and everybody else has already had a turn, and it’s like opening your birthday present, but only the other kids get to play with it. Maybe. I don’t know, I never had fucking birthdays. And he won’t be around forever, Insight’s wiping him off the face of the Earth, and I just want—just this once—I don’t fucking know. Forget it, Jack. It’s stupid. It’s not fair to you. Just forget I fucking said it.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Rumlow raises his head to find Rollins staring at him, face unreadable. “All right.”

*

“Brock! Jack!” Rogers is leaning in the doorway. He’s wearing just a pair of dress pants which are hanging low enough on his hips to advertise that there’s nothing beneath them. “Glad that you could make it!”

Murphy, Anders, and her boyfriend are all sprawled around the floor and bed in various states of undress. There’s a fucking machine still buzzing in the corner. Rollins doesn’t grab Rogers by the throat or tear his head off. Not outside of his mind, at least.

Rollins is a damn good actor. That’s not a boast, it’s a simple fact. Anyone knowingly serving HYDRA and SHIELD simultaneously has to be a damn good actor, whether they realize it or not. So Rollins can walk into the bedroom and sit on Murphy’s stupid “repurposed” footstool, which is really just a crate, and keep his face impassive while Rogers reviews safe words. He can act like his chest isn’t breaking open.

He can’t smile, though. He’s a good actor, not a great one.

“What about you, Jack?” Rogers asks, his smile bright and perfect. “What do you like in bed?”

 _My boyfriend. Curled up next to me and fucking far from you._ “I don’t,” he says flatly, evenly.

And Rogers just nods, still smiling, acting like he’s not tearing the world apart.

Rollins would give anything to look away when Rogers lays Rumlow out on the bed. He could just turn his head, lower his eyes, watch the rise and fall of Murphy’s chest as he lies sleeping, fucked out on the floor. Or put his focus on Anders and her boyfriend trading kisses in the corner. But he can’t, damn it. Rumlow’s been hurt too many times by too many men he’s given power for Rollins to look away now. And this is Steve Rogers. If he wanted, he could tear Rumlow like tissue paper.

And besides, he can’t help but want to see absolute contentment on Rumlow’s face, just this once. Lord knows Rollins can never give it to him.

Rogers has Rumlow pinned on the mattress, fucking him hard. Rollins can feel a sting at the back of his eyes, but he stomps it down. Can’t let it show. And then Rumlow throws a hand out and it’s not Rogers he’s reaching for. It’s exactly where Rollins would take his hand if Rollins were on the bed. It’s the position that says either the pleasure or emotion’s too much, and Rumlow needs an anchor.

But Rollins isn’t there. And it’s just instinct, impulse. He can’t ruin this fantasy of Rumlow’s over a twitch. No matter how much bile and heartbreak are boiling at the back of his throat.

Rogers notices. He slows a little, turning his head. There’s a crease in his brow before his eyes fall on Rollins.

And maybe Rollins isn’t that good of an actor, because there’s a flicker of shock over Rogers’s face. Like he’s just now realized going balls deep in another man’s partner might cause a little problem. There’s a long, awful second in which Rollins thinks Rogers will pull out. In which he has to glare, willing him not to, even while it stabs in his own heart. _Don’t fucking ruin this for Brock, asshole. Don’t make both of us miserable._

Rogers doesn’t stop. Rollins can’t read his face, but it doesn’t look happy. Good. This is for Rumlow’s comfort; Rollins couldn’t give a fuck about Rogers if he tried.

And then it’s over. Rumlow’s crying out like Rollins has never heard before, and Rogers is withdrawing. There are red marks on Brock’s hips from the soldier’s hands, already beginning to bruise. Trembling, Rumlow lies breathless on the bed. His eyes are wet. It’s not sorrow, it’s fucking transcendence.

“You were incredible, Brock,” Rogers says, running a hand through Rumlow’s hair. “Here, Jack’ll take care of you, okay?”

“Huh?” Rumlow manages.

“It’s his place,” Rogers says, smiling, beckoning for Rollins as he removes himself from the bed.

Rollins can’t speak. He stares, incredulous, before rushing to Rumlow’s side. He kisses Rumlow’s throat, massages the skin around the forming bruises, rubs his own stubble-grazed cheek against his partner’s face as he settles beside him.

And Rumlow’s sobbing. It’s not sorrow, Rollins knows. It’s an emotional overload, sparking tears even though the emotions are positive. Steve Rogers must be a fucking god in bed, but that doesn’t matter. Because it’s this moment, this tenderness, that Rumlow craves the most. And it belongs to Rollins. Rogers made damn well sure of that.

Rollins raises his head. Rogers is seated on the floor now, absently petting Murphy’s hair. Their eyes meet. Rollins can’t bring himself to smile, but something passes between them all the same.

He can almost understand, cradling Rumlow in his arms, what makes Steve Rogers so special.

*

The next day, Rumlow calls an emergency STRIKE meeting. Steve Rogers is not invited.

He’d wanted to hold the meeting the night prior, once he’d managed to steady his breathing and dry his eyes. But by that point, Murphy had fallen asleep and Cap insisted on tucking him into bed and making sure they all had safe transportation home.

And Rollins had begged Rumlow to sleep on it before he made any rash decisions.

He’s slept. His decision hasn’t changed.

“We can’t let Project Insight kill Cap,” Rumlow says.

Murphy and Anders just nod, like he knew they would. Rollins is the only voice of protest.

“Brock, stop thinking with your dick.” His voice is harsh, but his arm is still around Rumlow’s shoulder. He hasn’t let go of Rumlow since last night, and Rumlow wouldn’t let him if he tried. Somehow, being pounded by Captain America seems to have pulled them closer together. Yet another reason Rogers has to live. “So he’s good in bed, so what? That’s not worth a life in prison. It’s not worth being dumped in a ditch with bullets in our heads.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Anders mutters. “You didn’t sleep with him.”

“When I came out of the closet,” Murphy begins. His eyes are wide and hazy, his lips parted. He looks as if he’s in a state of religious ecstasy. Rumlow’s right there with him. “My _abuela_ called me a demon and threw me out of the house. Last night—that was the first time I’ve been with a man without hearing her tell me I’m damned to hell. The world _needs_ Captain America. A world without him—how can we have peace?”

“So what, Rogers is gonna fuck all the queer youth into self acceptance?” With his free hand, Rollins is rubbing at his forehead. “Anders, come on. I know you’ve got more sense than this.”

“He got off four times on the Sybian,” Anders said. “And that was after fucking us into a higher plane of existence. Like hell am I gonna kill him off before I figure out how many times he can come without sex beforehand.”

“You won’t get the chance to figure that out even if he lives!” Rollins protests. “Because Pierce will _kill_ us! And that’s if we’re lucky! Best case scenario: Rogers locks us up for all time. Worst case scenario? We end up as HYDRA science experiments.”

“Insight’s not ready for launch yet.” Murphy glances around as he says it, twitching a little, even though they’re clearly the only ones for miles around. No one else is stupid enough to sit in the park on a freezing winter morning, and especially not on a Saturday. “HYDRA’s not unstoppable until those helicarriers are up. We could get amnesty.”

“From who?” Rollins nearly shouts it. “SHIELD can’t protect us from HYDRA! What, the CIA? The FBI? You all know HYDRA’s got its tentacles in all of those places.”

Anders says, “They’re not in the Avengers.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“She’s right,” Rumlow says. “Stark held his own against the government over his suits—you all know how badly Stern wanted his hands on that tech. And that was before he had a whole team alongside him. He has the resources to keep us protected.”

“You know what else he has?” Rollins asks. “A damn good reason to hate HYDRA. Why would he offer us anything? He’d take our info and throw us back to the wolves! Look.” His face softens and he leans forward on the bench, meeting all their eyes. Rumlow is the last one he turns to and he holds his gaze there. “I’m sorry, all right? I get that this was special to you. But there’s only one way out of HYDRA, and it isn’t an all expenses paid stay in the Stark Tower. Besides, if we ran to Stark and spilled the beans, do you really think Rogers would touch any of you ever again?”

“That’s not the point.” Murphy’s jiggling his knee, twisting the hem of his home-distressed organic cotton shirt between his hands. “I’m sick of HYDRA, Jack. When I joined, they made it sound like I could finally make a difference. They said we’d be stopping the people hurting the helpless, hurting the planet, the ones that the bureaucrats let slip by unpunished. But I’ve seen what HYDRA does now. Torturing the Winter Soldier, provoking wars, killing people who invent life-saving technology just to further crises...that’s not building a better world. It’s being the biggest bully. And I’ve told myself it would all be worth it in the end because I’ve been afraid to run. But now? I can’t let them hurt somebody who’s only ever been nice to me. To everyone. Who helped me not to hate myself. I can’t. I’d rather die trying to do the right thing for once in my life.”

He slumps back against the bench, drained. Anders puts her hand on his shoulder. “Even if Insight succeeds and HYDRA does bring about a perfect world, I could still lose the person that matters most to me. For all I know, that algorithm put Rowan on the list. Or someone in his family.”

No one but the highest ranking members of HYDRA has seen the list. It’s heavily guarded to prevent anyone from finding their sister or grandfather’s name and doing something stupid to try and save them. Rumor has it there are even a few disloyal agents among the targets. If that’s true, they may be screwed whatever option they take.

“And even if he isn’t—and why _would_ he be,” she continues, stilling the little shake in her hands. “Who’s to say he’ll want to stay with the woman who helped murder twenty million people?”

All eyes fall to Rumlow. He expects some protest from Rollins, but Rollins only waits.

“When I joined, they told me order only comes from pain.” Rumlow thinks back to that day. He’d been a fresh-faced, cocky idiot and it’s a wonder he’s lived this long. “And I bought it, because I’d always believed that. But last night—that wasn’t pain. I don’t know what the hell it was. All I know is I’ve never felt closer to you.” He places his hand on Rollins’s knee and only keeps from kissing him because he knows if he starts he won’t stop, and he has to finish this. “I—I don’t care if I ever touch Rogers again. But if I let some guided missile blow his ass up after what he’s done? I’ll never sleep again, Jack. I’ll hate myself forever. So I have to take the chance of throwing myself on Stark’s mercy. Even if the rest of you decide it isn’t worth the risk. Even if I have to do it alone.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Rollins pulls his arm away but doesn’t swat Rumlow’s hand from his knee. “Stop sounding so dramatic about your thirst for Captain America’s patriotic penis. As usual, I’m the only one with any common sense about this. We’re not going to Stark. Why would he give a shit about offering amnesty? We have to go straight to Rogers.”

“And tell him what?” Rumlow asks. “‘Hey Cap, we’re HYDRA agents. Sorry to have lied to you for our whole working relationship, but we really regret it now that you’ve boned us. Could you please not turn us in and also let us have a go at your all American asshole?’”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Rollins rolls his eyes. “We just need the right incentive.”

*

The Winter Soldier is very confused about this mission.

The briefing at the base had been clear. There is a hydraulic engineer whose innovations are causing trouble for HYDRA’s hold on several water corporations. The Soldier is to shoot her and his team will dispose of all her research. It should be easy, but they are continually delayed.

“Soldier,” Commander Rumlow had said approximately six minutes ago. “Who did the Secretary put in charge of this mission before we left?”

The Soldier had pointed at the Commander, because the question did not require his words.

“That’s right,” the Commander had said with a wide, tight smile. “And that means you’ll obey my orders without question, won’t you?”

The Soldier had nodded.

“Good. We need to make a slight detour to get another team member. It won’t affect the timetable.”

Now the van has stopped, and Agent Anders is guiding a man through the doors. The Soldier does not recognize him. The man does not carry himself as though he has military training. Perhaps he is a computer specialist, to help retrieve the target’s research.

“What’s going on?” the man asks. His eyes fall on the Soldier, and specifically the Soldier’s arm. “What the hell, Jules? Who is—”

“I’ll explain everything, Rowan,” Agent Anders says, shoving him to sit while Agent Rollins closes the doors. “This—it’s good for us, I swear. Consider it a Valentine’s surprise.”

Then they are driving again. The Soldier rubs a scuff mark off of his rifle with his sleeve. Everyone’s face is wet with perspiration, save for the new team member and the Soldier himself.

“Are they tracking the van?” Agent Murphy asks. “Is there some sensor that can—”

“Westfahl’s on traffic duty,” Agent Rollins says, fiddling with his phone. “Guy’s either asleep at the computer or jacking off. We have at least an hour on our side.”

Commander Rumlow’s cell phone rings. “Hello? Yes, sir. We’re in route to—Yes, sir. I understand, sir. No trouble at all, sir. Thank you.” He speaks very loudly, eyes darting to the rearview mirror often. There is not much pause between his words; the caller must be speaking quickly.

After hanging up, the Commander parks the van. He turns in his seat, facing the Soldier. “The timetable has changed,” he says, wiping at the sweat on his brow. “The target’s moved unexpectedly, and we won’t be able to elim—” He glances to the new team member and falls silent. “To deal with her until HQ gets a bead on her again. Understand?”

The Soldier nods.

“In the meantime, we’re to rendezvous with, uh, our new technology contractor,” the Commander continues. “He’ll be studying your arm, trying to improve on the design to reduce the weight. You’ll behave for him, won’t you?”

The Soldier nods.

“Good. Just sit tight, we’re almost there.” Then he turns back around and resumes driving.

The new team member clears his throat. “Would someone please tell me what’s going—”

“Shush,” says Agent Anders.

“We’re sure Rogers is there?” Agent Rollins asks.

“He said he had a Valentine’s lunch at the Stark Tower,” Agent Murphy responds. “I asked him, like, twelve times.”

They arrive at a large building with an A toward the top of it. There are many people milling about the streets and likely many more people inside. But Commander Rumlow has a good track record and the Secretary has put him in charge of the mission, so the Soldier allows himself to be led without question.

Once they are inside, the Commander ushers everyone into an elevator. Agent Murphy complains that he is feeling claustrophobic. The Soldier is not feeling claustrophobic because the elevator is much roomier than his cryostasis tank, even with six people in it.

The building has many floors and they are in the elevator for over a minute before they reach their destination. There are voices in the distance as they step out of the elevator, people coming closer.

“—like I keep telling Natasha, my relationships or lack thereof are none of your business—”

“—you can deny the problem all you want, Steve, but I’m still starting a charity fund for the Formerly Frozen and Chronically Dateless—”

The voices are almost familiar. There’s an itching in the Soldier’s skull and he stands a little straighter.

A tall, broad man with blond hair turns the corner. He’s quickly followed by a shorter man with facial hair.

“Hey,” says the blond. “So what’s the emergency, Brock—” Then he sees the Soldier and he falls silent, mouth open.

The Soldier is still. The man’s eyes are blue and very wide and the Soldier feels as though he has made a mistake, to receive such a stare. But he hasn’t made a mistake. He has fulfilled all objectives within acceptable parameters and has served the will of HYDRA. At least, he can’t remember making any mistakes.

“Bucky?” says the blond.

The Soldier turns to the Commander. He is not comfortable and he hopes the blond is not the technology contractor.

But the Commander is steering him toward the blond. “This is Steve Rogers,” he says. “He’ll take care of you.”

The blond is _hugging_ the Soldier. He is smiling but his eyes are wet. The Soldier wants to shove him away, but the Commander hasn’t ordered him to cause harm. “Bucky, I thought—this—how is this possible?”

“We can explain,” the Commander says. “But we can’t do it in front of Barnes.”

They leave the Soldier with the dark-haired man as they talk. The man studies the Soldier’s arm, which the Soldier likes, because it feels as though he is back home with the usual technicians. This technician is strange, though. He keeps asking the Soldier if there is any pain during the examination and asking if it is all right to touch him.

When the team returns, the Soldier tenses to see that the blond man is still with them. The blond is very pale. The new team member also looks ashen.

“Bucky,” the blond says, staring at the Soldier. He takes the Soldier’s flesh hand. He’s trembling as he turns to the technician. “Is he okay?”

“I found a couple trackers,” says the technician. “They weren’t transmitting.”

“Bucky,” says the blond. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.” His smile is watery, but it sparks the odd itch in the Soldier’s mind again. The sensation is not unpleasant, not exactly. The Soldier thinks that if he continues to feel it while awaiting further orders, he will not mind.

“Uh, Cap,” the Commander says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Do you think, maybe, once you’ve exposed Insight, do you think we could ever—”

“We’ll see,” the blond says. He’s still smiling at the Soldier. Behind him, the Commander and the other agents are smiling as well. “Thank you,” he adds, looking back over his shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

Then the blond hugs him again. This time, the Soldier does not want to push him away. The Commander says they will be here indefinitely, and though the Soldier cannot really remember, he thinks that this is his favorite mission of all.


End file.
